Old Bruises
by Demented Inu
Summary: Peter and Harry try to bury the hatchet. They rediscover old wounds instead. PG, Peter/Harry if you squint.


It had been ages since Peter had set foot in the old Osborn house, yet even still, on the brink of turning 30, the place gave him the screaming heebie-jeebies. Tall and intimidatingly dark, the sight of the lengthy windows and broad porch still made a shiver trace up Peter's spine. Though the houses around it, blocks away from this particular looming structure, were preparing for the upcoming holiday, the Osborn mansion was left untouched, as though the inhabitants knew that the place was frightening enough without fake cobwebs and plastic bats.

They likely did.

Peter's fingers were quick to unfasten web shooters, slip off the extremities of his uniform - mask, gloves, boots - and stuff them into a backpack that he hid beneath the shrubs. Though he knew it had been nearly a decade now since Norman Osborn had set foot in this house, Peter still expected the former owner to answer the door when he knocked. Instead, and after a painful pause, he was met with the sight of his childhood friend.

"Pete." Harry's voice began as a tone of surprise, of excitement, like he hadn't expected Peter to show at all. He probably hadn't; Peter had always been terrible at keeping dates. But then his tone became almost bitter, laced with soft resentment that made Peter's stomach churn. "Come in. I'm surprised you showed up."

In truth, Peter had thought of a million excuses on the way here that might get him out of this visit. He hadn't spoken to Harry in almost a year, which, given the circumstances, should have been understandable; Harry still recovering from his flirtations with LSD, Peter a busy man juggling (at the time) two jobs, three if you counted his 'extracurricular' nighttime activities. Harry no doubt still believing that it had been Peter to murder Norman Osborn instead of Norman's own blade wedging into his gut.

(Blood had been everywhere. Over the glider, over the costume. Over Peter's hands when he'd tried to help. Sickening,_ metallic_ scent.)

"Hey, I've got time for an old friend," Peter said instead of the words burning his tongue. Why had Harry invited him over? What was the point of this? When Harry shifted to allow him inside, Peter stepped foot once again into the house of his nightmares. He could almost hear Norman's laughter echo in the tall ceilings, the walls, the doorways. "I guess I'm just a little confused. I mean, it's sort of sudden, and we haven't-"

Suddenly his sentence was cut off by a small body colliding into his legs. He made a small "oof" sound as his knees were hugged, and looked down to see Normie looking up at him with a smile on his face. "Unca Peter!" he said with an air of pure bliss about him. "I missed you!"

It tugged Peter's heartstrings to be around children, even still. But Normie was so sweet, and Peter hadn't seen him in so long. "Hey, little man. I missed you too." He placed his hand on top of Normie's head, ruffling through his short hair. He'd hoped, in the time that had passed, that Norman Osborn Jr. would have grown to look more like his mother; but no. Even the hazel eyes were Harry's, the hair, the bone structure. Liz's smile, though. A small blessing. "Wow, look at you, you're getting tall! Next thing you know, I'll have to look up to see you. Your daddy's gonna have to start piling books on your head. No more vitamins for you, kiddo."

Normie laughed and said, "Stop it" in a playful voice, and Harry was smiling. Smiling. Whoa. That was a relief to see, actually, after everything else that had happened. "Did you bring me anudder dinosaur?"

"Sorry, no dinosaurs today." Which was met with the expected "awww" of a disappointed child. "Next time, though. I promise. How about a nice Stegosaurus? Sound good?" Normie grinned at him and nodded enthusiastically. Peter patted him on the back to send him on his way again. "Now shoo. Go draw Uncle Peter a picture, okay?"

There was a silence that followed as Normie ran off in a fit of giggles. Harry looked indecisive, as if choosing his words carefully. "Come into the office with me," he said. "Little pitchers have big ears."

Something felt off. Not spider-sense; no, and thank God for it. Harry had quit all of that stuff, hadn't he? The drugs, the Goblin. Buried, if not forgotten. "Yeah." He followed, and Harry led, even when Peter felt uneasy being alone with Harry once the door closed. The words OSCORP PRESIDENT still shone in a plaque on the wall with a picture of Norman's face; old habits die hard, he supposed, though he had an overwhelming urge to flip the picture around. When Harry finally faced him, there was a chilling moment between the two like a psychic connection reforming after so long spent apart.

Finally the silence was enough, and Peter blurted, "Harry, why did you call me here? Why now?"

He should have known.

"MJ got married and you didn't tell me." For a brief, panicked moment, Peter thought about lying. His mouth even started to form the words 'I wasn't there' but Harry jumped the gun. "You were the _photographer_, Pete. Professionally. And not only did she get married, but married to the man who's taking charge of my father's company. M-_my_ company," he amended quickly. "Trent Easton's company now." Another pause as Peter struggled - for once - for something to say. "Why didn't you tell me MJ was getting married? Why haven't you spoken to me in the last year? Or come to visit Normie - he's _missed_ you, Peter, he misses his uncle and you've been ignoring him, ignoring me, ignoring Liz. Why?"

Peter felt a small sense of panic overtake him. "I... I didn't think you'd want to come," he said truthfully. "I thought you hated me. Normie's great, I love the kid, but if you're going to hate me, then no, of course I'm not going to show up here and try to act all buddy-buddy. You know that." He added, "And it's been ages since you and MJ even talked, as far as I know. Why would you care if she got married?"

"Oh gee, I don't know, why the hell would I care if one of my closest high school friends got married to the man inheriting Oscorp?" Harry's tone was biting now, and Peter physically flinched at hearing it. He hadn't heard Harry upset with him since Harry had worn the Goblin outfit.

"She's hardly your friend if you've barely even spoken to her over the years," Peter bit back, and Harry paled. He didn't regret saying it, not when it needed to be said. "The drugs, the... mess your life was. It's understandable to want some peace and quiet after all that. But to abandon the people that were there for you through all of it, who helped you back up-

"When were you ever there for me?"

Peter shouted, "I was the one to drag your overdosed, unconscious body to the hospital, Harry!" Another memory, of charging into Harry's bedroom to find him passed out across the bed and the pill bottle rolling across the floor, empty. A scare he wouldn't be able to handle seeing again. "Do you not remember that? I picked you up and physically carried you away! Liz was sobbing her eyes out, and your dad..."

Norman hadn't even cared. He didn't want to tell Harry that, but maybe that needed to be said too. Maybe if he said it, Harry could let go - the way Peter himself had been told to let go. Each of them held onto the past in a way that damaged them, but Harry was so much worse off than he was. Harry was mentally broken, and Peter hated witnessing the firsthand the remaining shards.

"Norman was the Goblin at the time, and I thought maybe if I showed him what was happening to you, he would stop. He would realize how important you were to him, how messed up everything had become. But he didn't. He claimed he didn't even know you before he flew off." Peter felt a tremor in his hands and willed them to stop. "But did that stop me from getting you treated? No."

There was no pause this time before Harry pushed on with the argument. It seemed that's all they knew how to do anymore, fight each other, verbally if they couldn't with fists.

"You don't know anything about my father," Harry tried to argue. "He was a good man. Deep down. He just had problems - he had problems, it was the only way out he could find. If anything, he was calling for help, and you killed him. That's not helping me, that's murder."

This again. If there was one thing Peter was tired of, it was hearing that he'd killed someone. Especially someone like Norman. He was tempted to ask Harry if he thought Norman was lily-white and innocent, if Norman had never killed anybody; but he held that back, knowing that Harry had witnessed Gwen's death as well. The whole world did. It wasn't fair, what happened to him, but that was how things worked in the real world. Life wasn't fair. Peter knew that from firsthand experience.

With a tired sigh, Peter said, "I didn't kill your father, Harry." It was true, though he knew already that Harry didn't believe him. He'd never believed him, so why would he start now? "You saw the body, didn't you? He was killed by his own glider. You should know that."

"But you were there." Harry sounded desperate, frantic. "You were there when he was bleeding to death. You didn't even try to help him, did you, you sick bastard?"

"Jesus Christ." Peter threw his hands up in the air, turned around with a groan of irritation. "Not this again." It was an old argument, one that came up almost every time the two spoke, ever since Harry had discovered the truth about Peter's alter ego. He was tired, and worn down, and irritated by the whole thing. "For the love of God, Harry, you think I didn't try? You think I didn't want to save him, even if he was a psychopathic son of a bitch that was abusing my best friend? You think I stood by and let him die without trying to save him?"

Harry was trembling too. Just the barest traces of it in his clenched fists, but Peter knew his 'friend' too well by now, years of learning Harry's mentality, his moods. Too long spent in each other's company. The memory of seventh grade lunchtimes spent in the shade of their favorite tree came to mind, but it was gone by the time Harry spoke next.

He said, "You weren't even at the scene. You'd fled. I'm not stupid, Peter."

"Really? Because you're doing a damn good job of convincing me otherwise." But that wasn't fair of him. He knew that. He pinched the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes, a headache burning in the back of his skull. Tension headache. "I had to leave. What would the police say if they saw me like that? They would have thought the same thing you did. But I'm not heartless, you know. I'm not a killer."

And then Harry said it. The one most fragile thread in Peter's life.

"Tell that to Gwen."

Suddenly Peter felt nothing he normally felt for Harry - no affection, no friendship, no sympathy - and for a flash of a moment, he saw Norman's face in place of Harry's; heard the Goblin's mockery. (_Romantic fool! She was dead before your webbing reached her! A fall from that height would kill anyone before they struck the ground!_) But no, Peter had done the math. He'd drawn the physics over pads of paper hundreds of thousands of times. Force equals mass times acceleration. Falling at ninety-five miles per hour, gaining velocity as she fell. Three hundred feet, halfway down the pylon... falling.

And he'd caught her. He had. Harry had seen it, hadn't he?

No affection. No friendship. No sympathy or pity. Just anger burning in the pit of his stomach as he suddenly turned, fisted his hand into the front of Harry's shirt, and pulled him forward to glare deeply at him.

"Don't you _dare _bring that up with me," he hissed, rage boiling under the normally calm surface. Keep him talking, wasn't that right? That strategy didn't work with Harry. It never had. There was fear in Harry's eyes, fear and hatred, and Peter's shaking hands formed into angry fists, though he didn't lash out. "What do you know about my life? What do you know about Gwen? I tried to save her. Where were you when it all went to shit, huh? Hiding away in your daddy's shadow and choking down pills."

The words were familiar, not because he had said them before but because of the feel of them. Angry and bitter, betrayed and alone. The last time he had said anything like this, he had been donned in black, hadn't he? A symbiote driving him to push others away. But he wasn't in black now; it had been years and years since he'd worn black, since he'd caved to such horrible emotions.

Peter saw the clenching of Harry's jaw, the resentment set deep in his eyes; but he also saw the fear there. Harry was scared that Peter was going to hit him. He wanted to, felt the urge twitch in the hand at his side. Instead, he just released him with a light push so that Harry fell back a step, the two glaring at each other, electricity seeming to spark between them. Friends... rivals.

"Don't call me again, Harry," Peter said with his voice hard and furious. "If you do, it had better not be to pull this bullshit again."

There was no hesitation now when Peter turned to go, leaving Harry standing in the middle of his father's office in silence. He heard Normie playing with his fire truck in the hallway but paid him no mind even when he heard the small voice say, "Unca Peter, where you going?" He couldn't take it anymore. The door opened and slammed shut again and Peter pulled his costume back on in the dark shadow of the looming house.

It was cold out, the leaves orange and withering, the sky grey with a no doubt impending rain.

Peter fled from the Osborn house as fast as his webs could carry him.


End file.
